


Blackhole

by missyvortexdv (Purpleyin), Purpleyin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:44:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin/pseuds/missyvortexdv, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin/pseuds/Purpleyin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock/Molly unrequited oneshot. She means to do better, get over him, but intentions are one thing and his special brand of reality is another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackhole

**Author's Note:**

> A small oneshot I wrote some time ago and am finally posting. Unintentionally wrote it in 2nd person, but leaving that way as attempts to change it to 1st/3rd somehow don't feel right somehow - so you are warned, if you dislike 2nd person then don't read.

There's a phenomenon of Sherlock that might be one of the few things you dislike about him. When he walks into a room he distorts the view of it. You're drawn to him, when you want to be drawn to what he sees, to be better than him for once and show him who you can be.

It never works like that though. When he's there you forget about reality, all of it switching to surreal, moments stolen close to him, watching his lips mutter thoughts and passing petri dishes, beakers, calling him out of his reverie for results. The results matter more than you do and in that time you can not care. He'll sweep out eventually and gravity returns, the penny drops; you feel stupid, you wonder why you didn't tell him to shove it when he was an arse or demanded a coffee in the middle of your shift. You want to be more than this meek girl and you are – a woman, confident, professional - every other moment, except the ones he steals from your life, like his energy can only exist when you are near him, like he's fuelled on the awe of others.

You don't want any of this to be the case. You've cursed the crush and felt the pull growing still, drawing you further into his world. It has gone from his invasion of your workplace to your counter-invasion of his home. You should say no, you should be strong and defiant, but you go to the Christmas party at 221B Baker Street and you meet that end point, suffocated with the lack of air as he reels in this poor starry eyed girl in his orbit. Unaware – of course, the one thing he would be unaware of - that he's pulling you too far this time. For a moment you are free, can tell him what he might as well have been waiting for. He'd have stopped long ago, gone away long ago, let you be long ago, if you'd simply refused to put up with it all.

And just as you expect it is all over, done for, crushed dreams. He kisses you, gently, and say's sorry. It's you who is sorry now though, you know you can never be free, not when he will let that go and you can't push away harder anymore. The fall is merely gradual in motion, dragged out to take up every moment he is there. Agony on a slow burn, from a hint of bliss borne of beauty – the corona around a dark star.


End file.
